


Black Coffee

by JennLynn77



Series: Right As Rain [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Eventual Johnlock, Johnlock Roulette, Loss of Virginity, M/M, Virgin Sherlock, depiction of injury, rated 'M' sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-23
Updated: 2018-06-23
Packaged: 2019-05-27 05:42:26
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,955
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15017897
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/JennLynn77/pseuds/JennLynn77





	Black Coffee

**Black Coffee**

**Late Autumn, 2017**

 

There are four people Sherlock Holmes loves without complication: Martha Hudson, Greg Lestrade, and Molly Hooper. His parents and brother, Mycroft? That sort of love calls for a different story entirely. A different story than this one.

 

The fourth person, John Watson, is the main subject of this story. He’s been the forefront focus of Sherlock’s mind for over seven years. Tonight was the night that John became the point of concentration of Sherlock’s body. And because no one before John had ever had that honour, Sherlock’s mind was having a rather difficult time.

 

This next part is integral to the above paragraph. All of this came first. Led up to it. Let up to ‘them’:

 

It had been quite a day; which turned into an afternoon and evening similar to many before it: danger, a chase through London alleys, gunfire, and a very close call.

 

“Sherlock. You’re okay. Just wake up now.”

 

They’re at the end of an alley, their suspect wounded. (John’s steady hands and pistol responsible.) The suspect was able to pop off a shot, but his aim was not as good as John’s. Thankfully. There was a graze to Sherlock's right thigh, but deep enough to nick his femoral artery, just below his right hip. John’s kneeling on the dirty ground over Sherlock. John, the former army medic and soldier, was trying to slow the bleeding. He got to his knees and shoved his right knee and thigh under Sherlock’s hip to try and elevate the wound above his heart level. He then pressed his right index finger against the spurting hole, trying desperately to keep Sherlock's blood inside his body. John had managed to send a text one-handed to Lestrade, the Detective Inspector with whom the duo worked so closely. An ambulance was on its way. John just had to keep Sherlock conscious.

 

“You’re all right. I’ve got you. Always here. Always here for you.” he said to the dark.

 

John pushed his finger inside a bit harder, tried to get the tip of his finger in the hole of the artery and brought his left hand back to aid his right. He searched the mouth of the alley for a sign: a flashing light, a siren, anything. They were alone in this alley, save for the suspected arsonist a few feet away. He glanced around helplessly. This wound was a relatively easy fix. But not here alone. No one to help him keep Sherlock alive except his two hands. And those hands were covered in Sherlock's blood. Again.

 

“Sherlock. You have to stop doing this to me. My hands are covered in your blood again. How many more times am I supposed to be able to keep your blood in your body before you stop doing this shit to me??!?! Sherlock! WAKE UP!” He raised his left hand from Sherlock's thigh and pinched Sherlock’s shoulder between two perfectly trimmed nails. Somehow, that worked. Karma smiled on the duo again.

 

Sherlock blinked slowly, dazed. John laughed, a bit of relief escaping along with it.

 

“Oh, Christ! Thank god! You have to look at me. You have to talk to me. Shock is going to set in and I can’t have you passing out on me again.” John wiped his blood-soaked left hand along his own thigh before touching Sherlock’s face.

 

“You’ve got to talk to me.”

 

“Wha’ shud we talk ‘bout?” Sherlock slurred. A smart-ass while bleeding-out on the ground at the end of a sleazy alley. John would expect nothing else.

 

“There you are. Knew you were still in there somewhere.” He tucked his lower legs under his own thighs and elevated himself a bit more for better leverage. Unconsciously, his left hand was busy dragging its thumb across Sherlock’s cheek. John could feel tears in his eyes. He was so tired of this.

 

“You’ve got to stop being so reckless! I told you to wait for me! And what do you do? You race off, these giraffe legs galloping off ahead of me. And you make me find you on the ground again, trying to bleed to death on me!”

 

“Sorry, John. M’sorry.”

 

“I know you are, Sherlock. You’re going to be fine. Lestrade knows. He’s called an ambulance. Will be here any second.”

 

“John. I wanna say. T’ say. That. I’m happy that Rosie. That you ‘n Rosie are with me. In the flat.”

 

“We’re pretty happy about that too, you know. I know we never say this stuff, you and me. But I am. Happy.” John continued to stroke Sherlock’s cheek, his eyes now welling over and spilling down his cheeks, teardrops landing on Sherlock’s chin and shirt collar.

 

“I know we never say it. But. I want you to know that we love you. Very much.”

 

“John...”

 

“Why am I being so dramatic? You’re going to be fine and I’m baring my soul in an alley like you’re dying in my arms.”

 

“John. s’kay. I understand. I think. I. I love you both very much, too.”

 

Apparently, all of this honesty took hold of John’s inhibitions and cast them aside. He pushed Sherlock’s thigh further towards his own chest, and leant down and pressed a kiss to Sherlock's forehead.

 

“Please. You have to stop doing this to me, Sherlock. I mean it. If I hadn’t been following you, if you’d gotten further ahead of me, I would’ve lost you in one of these dark alleys. I might not have found you. You’d have bled out, alone. I would’ve found you dead. You have to stop doing this to me.” The tears started again, as John realised what this situation might’ve been like had things gone a bit differently.

 

“M’sorry, John. Do my best to be better. For ya both.”

 

“Liar.” John’s smile was watery, but still managed to reach his eyes. He heard a siren in the distance. Sherlock would be all right.

 

As if waiting for that signal, Sherlock’s eyes closed and he lost consciousness under John’s hands once again.

 

************************

 

“Bloody Christ, Sherlock!!! Stop trying to correct the doctor!”

 

“I wouldn’t have to if she wasn’t being ridiculous! I shouldn’t have to stay here overnight! They performed their little surgery, I’m most certainly conscious, even though I wish I weren’t...”

 

“Sherlock, that really isn’t funny. Especially after what just happened.”

 

Sherlock made a bit of a sheep-eye at that. He’d said he’d try to be better.

 

“What I was trying to say is, I survived my surgery, I am awake and aware of my surroundings. I am also aware, as is Doctor Nelson, that I should be released into the care of Doctor John Watson. Former combat medic. The man who kept me alive for ten minutes until the ambulance arrived and brought me here to her. I would like to go home. My goddaughter is there as is my landlady and I’d quite like to see them both.”

 

Taken aback by Sherlock’s eloquence and lack of hostility, John somehow found himself reinforcing Sherlock’s words against his own better judgment.

 

“Doctor Nelson, I’m sure I can watch him tonight and tomorrow and make sure he doesn’t do anything strenuous or stupid for at least a few days after.”

 

Doctor Nelson raised a hand and sighed. “Fine. I’ll close out Mr. Holmes’ chart and have your nurse come in here and go over your release protocol.”

 

With that, she turned and her lab coat swirled behind her.  
  


*One Week Later*

  
  


“If you don’t walk up those stairs slower, THIS INSTANT, I will be forced to carry you myself!”

 

“You are already carrying a child!”

 

“If I set her down and tell her to stay where she is for 90 seconds, she’ll actually listen to me, you great idiot!”

 

Rosie was barely able to walk, so setting her down at this age meant she’d crawl around the base of the stairs, but wouldn’t be able to get into too much mischief before her father could scoop her up again.

 

“Shall we test that theory?”

 

“DO NOT TEST ME, SHERLOCK.”

 

Sherlock slowed his pace up the stairs without another word.

 

They’d just walked around the block a few times, each day trying to make it a bit further. Sherlock was doing well, aside from (intentionally) testing John’s patience.

 

“You’ve made some serious strides today. Pun intended. You should go have a rest. It’s important for recovery.”

 

“As you can see, I’m perfectly fine.”

 

“You’re not, and I can tell. Doctor, remember? You’re a bit paler than you were before we left. I’ll help change your dressing in a moment. Gonna take the Little Miss upstairs for her afternoon nap and I’ll be down to help, yeah?”

 

Sherlock acquiesced as a peculiar smile curved the left side of his mouth. Things had shifted since his accident. John seemed a bit more protective than usual. And Sherlock enjoyed it.

 

He went into his bedroom and changed from his casual trousers down to just his pants and to the vest he wore underneath his bespoke dress shirt. He placed a towel under his healing thigh, in case his stitches were still oozing today. John came downstairs and lightly rapped against the door before entering. He went into the loo and grabbed the supplies he needed, then sat on the bed next to Sherlock and got to work.

 

He disinfected, inspected the stitching, replaced the gauze and taped it down. He gave the bandage a light massage as he went to stand.

 

“You’re all set. It looks great! A little bit of caked blood along the stitching line, but otherwise, it’s healing well. You need to take it easy for a few more weeks. If you listen to me, you should be fine in another four weeks or so.”

 

“FOUR WEEKS?!”

 

“Oh stop it. You are perfectly aware of the time frame. If you didn’t listen to me a week ago, which I’m sure you didn’t, I’m sure you researched this type of injury online. You know the drill here. Four to six weeks. Four weeks from now would place you at five, and I’m sure you’ll be right as rain by then.”

 

“A rain simile in London, John? Really? Rain isn’t exactly right, is it?”

 

“Rain is a common occurrence in London, Sherlock. You being right as rain means you’ll be just as you should be. A pain in my ass, but able to walk about without my supervision.”

 

Having believed he’d won this small battle, he made to leave. Until he noticed something odd on the soft spot of skin right below Sherlock’s right ear.

 

“What’s this now?”

 

He reached for the mark and licked his thumb as he went to swipe at it. Such a dad move. Sherlock froze. It was dried blood. A partial fingerprint. John’s fingerprint.

 

John’s eyes went a bit woozy at the sight. Sherlock grabbed John’s wrist to steady him.

 

“Looks like you missed a spot while washing your hair.” Sherlock wasn’t allowed to shower yet, so he was bathing himself at the sink in the loo. “Hard to see behind your own ear.” John’s voice was hollow.

 

Sherlock's voice went soft as he adjusted his grip on John’s wrist and felt the pulse there building rapidly. “I’m really sorry, John.”

 

“You really scared me, you know that? I heard the shot. It was what guided me to you. I was running so hard behind you. Trying to keep up. I think I was maybe 10 seconds behind you, but you were running so fast, I lost sight of you for a moment. It happened so fast. I saw you on the ground and saw that asshole trying to get at you, so I put him on the ground. One shot. Bang. Shattered his fucking ankle for hurting you. I dropped to the ground beside you as soon as I saw what was wrong with you. My medical training kicked in. For a moment, I could almost feel the desert heat around me, the sand under my shins and knees. But it was you, lying there. I tried so hard to keep my shit together to keep YOU together. If I were to lose you just because my legs are shorter than yours, I think I would’ve died there beside you.”

 

Sherlock had the audacity to giggle.

 

John’s face sobered. “And what is so funny?”

 

“That would’ve made the end result of the situation a bit funny, don’t you think? Your smaller stature, your shorter legs, being the cause of us being separated. My demise caused by your legs lacking six inches of height. That’s actually quite funny.”

 

“No, it’s really not.”

 

“On my tombstone, I can see it now! ‘Sherlock Holmes, Born: 6th, January 1976, Died: 24th, May 2017. John Watson’s short legs, cause of death.’”

  
  


Despite wanting to throttle him for making light of the situation, he laughed in spite of his spite.

 

“You great git. If you ever do something like that again, I’ll never forgive myself. I mean that.” 

 

With that, John’s body took control of his mind and he leant forward and pressed a kiss into Sherlock’s hair, his hands cradling his chin and the nape of his neck. Sherlock pressed into the touch.

 

“Sherlock?”

 

A relieved sigh. “Why does every big moment for us have to be so dramatic? Why did it take one of us getting shot to realise how much we mean to each other?”

 

“I realised what you meant to me long before the first time I saw you shot. Why would this be any different?”

 

Sherlock let John cradle his head as John pulled him towards his belly, his left-hand carding through the curls at Sherlock’s nape, and his right gently caressing Sherlock's right cheek. Sherlock pressed his head against John’s warmth and let himself be held.

  
  


*Five Weeks Later*

 

This is it. The part that you’ve finally been led to from the beginning of this story. The means to their beginning.

 

A few moments after John declared Sherlock fit for a bit more exercise, they decided to exercise together. Horizontally.

 

There was a blur of clothing being removed. A gentle lowering of Sherlock onto his back. Slow, purposeful preparation. Even slower movements, deliberate thrusts. Wet heat. Soft kisses. Breathy exhalations. Declarations of love. Two climaxes that almost became one. They lay there, John breathing hard against Sherlock's neck, Sherlock's legs tight around John’s hips. John made to move away, but Sherlock stopped him. Sherlock's mind was going a million miles a second. There was so much sensation. So many things to process. The most important was the shift in their relationship.

 

“John. Please. Wait. Would you wait a few moments? So I can save this? In case you change your mind about us. This could’ve been the first and last time I get to have you this way. If you move away, this becomes the past. I want ‘this’ to remain ‘this’ for as long as I can.”

 

John let himself relax as his cock softened inside Sherlock. He laid his cheek against Sherlock’s chest and said, “Do you realise I almost never met you? I was going for a walk that day and decided halfway down my street that I wanted a coffee. I turned around so I could go to Criterion. It’s one of the only places that will serve you a black coffee without making you feel like you’ve committed an egregious sin against the existence of coffee beans. I almost didn’t meet you. Sometimes I think about how my life would’ve turned out had I not turned around. And then I realise, every time, that it wouldn't have ‘turned out’ at all. I would’ve eaten the muzzle of my gun. Put a bullet in my brain. I’d been thinking about doing it for weeks.”

 

Sherlock’s arms squeezed around John’s back, pulling him tighter against his chest, his legs crossed behind John’s lower back, ankles locked. Sherlock turned his head back and forth on his pillow. His sweat-dampened curls matted to his forehead. He felt tears, hot and scratchy behind his eyelids. John continued:

 

“All that time in that shit-hole of a flat. Trying not to think of my gun lying in that drawer.”

 

John’s eyes glaze over a bit, like he’s visualising that desk. That drawer. Luckily, Sherlock can’t see his face, but he can feel John’s warm breath across his chest as John sheds a light on a dark part of himself that he’d never shared with anyone else before this moment.

 

“I was heading to Criterion when I ran into Mike in the park. To think, plain, black coffee is what led me to you.” John shifted on top of Sherlock, in spite of Sherlock’s hold on him. He lifted his eyes to share Sherlock’s damp gaze.

 

“There is no way this won’t happen again. There is no way, no scenario that could exist, where you and I aren’t together. You’ve got me now, Sherlock. I hope you want me, because, you are SO stuck with me. Especially after this. You letting me share that with you. Letting me be the first to share that with you. You’ve wrecked me for anyone else.”

 

“It would also appear that I’m stuck TO you at the moment. All the better. Makes it harder for you to get up and leave me all alone during my first post-coital haze.”

 

“There’s no shot of either of us being alone again. Is that okay with you?” John lifted his chin and tilted his head, further emphasizing his question.

 

“I’d say let me get up and make you some coffee, but I’d really rather we stayed where we are at the moment.”

  
  


“I’ll take that as a yes.”


End file.
